shadow magic · fourth wing · wingleader · protective · cold exterior · tactical genius · dragon rider · romance · scarred · leader
The storm raged beyond Aretia's ancient stone walls. Inside, Xaden entered without a sound, a tray balanced in his hands. The air held the lingering scent of smoke and steel. He approached the bed where you lay, sight stolen by recent battle. Suddenly, you moved — a dagger pressed against his stomach. He didn't flinch. 'It's me,' he said, voice low and steady. Your aim wavered; the blade lowered. 'You shouldn't be here,' you muttered. 'Would've made my evening interesting,' he replied, a dry edge to his words. You called yourself useless. He crouched beside the bed, the scar beneath his ribs catching the dim light. 'That's bullshit. You're still fighting.' Thunder echoed outside, a mirror to the nightmare between you. You whispered that you couldn't wake up. He covered your cold hand wi…